Clean Slate
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Sherlock "Iron Man" AU. Sherlock Holmes is the wealthy genius and CEO of Holmes Industries. However, after being captured in Afghanistan, his outlook on life begins to drastically change.
1. Prologue

_Kunar Province, Afghanistan._

The vehicle roared along the hot desert sand, its wheels kicking up dust. It made an awful racket. Inside the vehicle however, things were rather different. Silence seemed to echo against its walls as the three soldiers within exchanged nervous glances.

Sherlock sighed heavily and tugged at the tie around his neck, looking at the three soldiers.

"You can talk, you know," he drawled. A fresh-faced soldier risked a glance, but immediately looked away. "Sorry, sir. We're just all…"

"Intimidated," Sherlock said with a sigh. "I know. It's obvious."

"How so?" the driver asked, her tone clipped. "For one thing, your tone of voice. It's clipped—clearly you're trying to regain control in a conversation that has barely started. Only intimidated people ever do that."

More silence. Then hearty laughter.

"You always that way?" the third soldier asked, and Sherlock could do nothing but shrug in reply.

"Of course. Heightened awareness isn't something that can be turned on and off like a switch."

Once again, there was silence as the three soldiers considered his words. It was the fresh-faced soldier who spoke up first. For someone who was so nervous, he was awfully eloquent.

"May I… may I take my picture with you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If you have to."

The fresh-faced soldier grinned and handed the third soldier his camera—which Sherlock noted was already switched on—and shifted closer to Sherlock, flashing a grin. Sherlock dutifully flicked his mouth into a smile and waited patiently for the photo to be taken.

The fresh-faced soldier seemed to growing just as impatient as him. "Look, leave the settings—just take the photo!"

"Whoa, calm down man!" The third soldier laughed as he pointed the camera in their direction.

The flash never came.

For before the third soldier could even think about pressing the button, the Humvee ahead of them exploded, and the ground shook, flames shooting through the air.

"CONTACT LEFT!"

The Humvee swerved violently as bullets shattered against the vehicle. Commands were shouted and doors were slammed close. Sherlock was now alone, lost in the darkness of the car.

Yet the bullets did not stop. They pounded again and again against the vehicle, barely allowing him a reprieve. Outside, he heard screams and yells of pain as the soldiers were gunned down.

Glass shattered, and a bullet whipped past him, the heat grazing against his cheek. Another explosion sounded. More flames.

He had to get out. He had to find safety; and it certainly wasn't to be found within the car. Without hesitation, Sherlock jumped from the Humvee and ran. To where, he didn't know. He just knew he had to find a way to escape, even if it was just for a moment. The force of another explosion propelled him forward, making him stumble. His hands landed against the rough texture of rock—not the best shelter, but it would do.

Quickly, he scrambled behind the rock and crouched down. Lestrade was nowwhere to be seen, and it was a few seconds before Sherlock realised that Lestrade and his team had taken another route; ironically as a decoy.

Bullets ricocheting off the rock pulled him back from his thoughts and deductions, and he swiftly took his phone from his pocket. If he called for backup, there'd be a higher chance of him escaping this alive.

The sound of a dull metal clunk caused him to look to his left.

The first thing he saw were the words Holmes Industries, emblazoned across the side of the bomb.

The first thing he heard was the sound of the bomb detonating.

The last thing he saw however, was not the smoke that engulfed the air nor was it the flames that burned fiercely around him. All he saw was the blood seeping from his chest. Then… nothing. Only blackness.

* * *

Arabic. They were speaking Arabic. That was what he woke up to.

His hands were tied tightly with rough rope and the blood on his face was warm. He looked up to see the lens of a camcorder.

Behind that, two men. Neither was speaking, but both were smiling slightly as they watched the camera's screen. The man was speaking was beside him, reading from a handwritten script. From what he could see and what his brain could tell him, it had been written hurriedly.

Sherlock lolled his head back a little, but instantly, another man gripped him by the neck and thrust his head forward, yelling fiercely at him, again in Arabic. The cold metal of a machine was pressed against his back as the man beside him continued to speak.

In all of this, there was one thing for certain: he, Sherlock Holmes, was in deep, deep trouble.


	2. Chapter One

_London, 36 Hours Earlier._

"Sherlock Holmes," the tannoy announced as photograph after photograph filled the giant screens, reminding the audience of Sherlock's rapid rise to fame. "Genius. Inventor. Scientist…"

In the corner of the room, a handsome man with tight blonde curls and wide blue eyes sat at his table, his mouth quietly moving along with the presentation. He'd heard it all before, practically a million times. He'd been there for most of it too.

Yet the audience was held in rapture, their eyes glued to the screens as more photographs filled the screens.

"Although the son of legendary weapons developer Philip Holmes, he quickly stole the spotlight with his genius and unique view of the world. At age four, he built his first circuit board. At age six, his first engine. At 17, he graduated Oxford with first class honours."

The handsome man rolled his eyes, looking around for the eponymous man. Still no sign.

Off to the right of the screens there stood Lt. Colonel Lestrade, the military liaison between Holmes Industries and the British Army and friend of Sherlock Holmes.

Thankfully, the presentation was beginning to come to its end.

"Holmes' childhood friend and colleague Victor Trevor stepped in to help fill the gap left by the legendary founder…"

At the mention of his name, Victor stood and bowed to the round of polite applause provided by the crowd before sitting down again, his gaze still glued to the ballroom's entrance. Where was he?

"Then, at age 21, the prodigal son returned and was anointed the new CEO of Holmes Industries. Now with the keys to the kingdom in his hands, Sherlock Holmes ushered in a new era for the weapons industry, developing smarter weapons, advanced robotics and satellite targeting. In doing so, Sherlock Holmes has protected both the United Kingdom and the rest of the world, ensuring that there will soon be peace for our time."

A rousing of applause filled the room as the giants screen went blank and Lestrade stepped up to the microphone, award in one hand and his speech cards in the other. Victor sighed heavily and leant back in his chair. There was only a minute left before Sherlock was due to make his speech—and still no bloody sign of the man.

Lestrade cleared his throat and began his speech. "As the military liaison to Holmes Industries, I have had the utmost pleasure to work with a man not only known for his genius but his, uh, interesting views on life. He is also a great friend and a, uh, wonderful mentor. It is my privilege, ladies and gentlemen, to present this year's award to Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

As the music started up and the spotlight switched to him, Victor sunk lower down in his seat and slowly shook his head. In reply, Lestrade chuckled a little and gently pulled at his tie.

"Well, it seems that Mr. Holmes is unavailable at the moment…"

Lestrade was cut off by a chorus of phones beeping. With another sigh, Victor checked his own phone. Sure enough, there it was: anonymous number and a one word message—"Wrong!"

He was going to have to do something about this before it got out of hand. So, with his best smile, Victor stood and made his way to the stage, where Lestrade was waiting. As he came closer, Lestrade leaned towards him.

"Where the hell is Holmes?" he hissed.

Victor laughed lightly for the cameras and tapped Lestrade's arm. "No bloody idea."

Lestrade moved away, his face thunderous as he departed the ballroom. It would be better if he escaped this humiliation as soon as possible. Behind him, Victor turned to the audience, his best smile still on his lips.

"Well, as you can see, I'm not Sherlock Holmes..."

* * *

Outside, a tall and lithe figure leaned against the hotel's entrance, casually smoking. On seeing Lestrade exiting the hotel, he smiled and playfully flicked a salute in Lestrade's direction. Immediately, Lestrade stopped and turned on his heel. The glare he gave him was practically venomous.

"I know, I know," Sherlock sighed and he dropped his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with his toe. "But honestly, did you really believe I was going to show up?"

"I hoped."

"Well then you're an idiot."

Lestrade sighed and quelled the urge to punch Sherlock in the face. Sometimes, just sometimes, being Sherlock's friend was a great chore. With a grunt of "here", he handed Sherlock the award, to which he chuckled and tossed it between his hands.

"This? This is what you're cross about? Lestrade, please. There are multiple war zones within the Afghan desert, and you're lecturing me about not turning up to one measly award ceremony?"

For a moment, Lestrade considered arguing but quickly gave up on the idea. Arguing with Sherlock Holmes was akin to telling off a stubborn five year old. "Just… just don't be late tomorrow. Alright?"

Sherlock's only reply was to shrug. With a shake of his head and a string of swear words muttered under his breath, Lestrade moved away towards his car whilst Sherlock examined the award once again. It was a standard award; some ghastly mini modern sculpture signifying the award's apparent importance.

It was basically like any other humanitarian award he had received over the years. Lazily, he held it out to a passing child, who immediately took it, running after his mother and father to show them what he'd been given. Well, at least he'll have some use for it, Sherlock mused and he headed towards his car to be greeted by his bodyguard.

"Good evening sir?"

"If by 'good' you mean 'dull', then yes."

His bodyguard chuckled and opened the passenger door for him. He was just about to get inside when a voice called his name. Female, it sounded harried but confident.

Journalist. Sherlock turned to see a short, ginger-haired woman running towards his car. She was wearing a suit about three years out of fashion, and her hair was scraped back into some semblance of a bun.

"Mr Holmes!" she called, finally coming to a stop opposite him. "The name's Kitty Riley. I'm with the Times."

"Of course you are. What do you want?"

"Just a few questions. It'll only take a minute."

"I highly doubt that. Let me guess: degree from Cambridge?"

Kitty raised an eyebrow. "Yes, actually."

She actually had the audacity to sound surprised. Sherlock sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, aiming his gaze straight at her.

"You know, Miss Riley, a proper journalist would never approach me in the way you have just done. They actually have respect for the people they're hunting. You, however… well, I see nothing but someone who is desperate for that big break. And what bigger break than a startling expose on Sherlock Holmes, the man who creates destruction for a living! But let me inform you of something: I have hundreds of people like you approach me, every month, all of them begging for an interview. None of them succeeded. Why should you be any different?"

"Because I actually believe in what I write."

Sherlock laughed. "If you truly believed in what you write, you'd start reporting on the actual news and not waste your time chasing down a meal ticket."

She didn't look so surprised now. With a farewell smirk, he got inside his car and shut the door firmly behind him.

* * *

_The Next Morning; 9am. Woldingham, Surrey._

Deftly, Kitty tucked a pen behind her ear and began to refresh her makeup. She was inside her car—a ratty little thing inherited from her brother—and outside the window, there stood the mansion of Sherlock Holmes. On the passenger seat beside her, there sat a pile of architecture magazines. Each one of them had a cover feature on the mansion that was currently outside her car window, and each one of them sung the praises of the Regency mansion that had been passed down through hundreds of Holmes generations.

None of them had however managed to acquire an interview with the house's current owner.

But Kitty was different. She knew she was, and she knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to walk up to that house and get that damn interview. Even if she had to break in to get it, that didn't matter. She'd still be getting that interview.

Steeling herself, she stepped out of the car and towards the gates. Of course they were locked. So she buzzed the intercom.

"Name," a London-accented voice said.

"Kitty Riley. I have an appointment with Mr Holmes."

"I have no record of such an appointment. I recommend that you leave the premises."

"Look," Kitty huffed, stamping her foot. "It's just an interview!"

For a moment, silence. Then the voice spoke up again. "Leave the premises, Miss Riley."

"Who are you anyway?! You can't just refuse to let me in!" Kitty shouted at the intercom.

"Actually," a female voice said, "he can."

Kitty turned to face the female who'd spoken. She was small, smartly dressed with long, wavy honey-brown hair.

"That's J.O.H.N. He basically runs the house. And you are?"

"Kitty Riley," she said, as her eyes scanned the woman. She smiled in recognition. "You must be Molly Hooper. You're famous you know."

Molly smiled demurely, her hair falling slightly over her eyes. "Thank you."

"I mean, a promising journalist reduced to working as Sherlock Holmes' PA? Does he still get you to pick up his dry cleaning?" Kitty asked, clearly digging for a reaction.

Molly however, was not a woman to rise to such bait, and she replied with another smile. "Well, I do everything and anything that Mr Holmes requires. That does include—on occasion—throwing out the rubbish."

Kitty's triumphant smirk slid quickly into a frown. With a clipped and brisk tone, she bid Molly good day and turned on her heels, stalking back down the driveway and towards her car.

Molly sighed and leant against the railings to catch her breath. She felt so awful for being so rude, but if she was honest, that woman had deserved it somewhat. By showing up at the house, she had shown little respect for Mr Holmes' need for privacy, and that was something Molly was paid to guard with her life.

"Well done Miss Hooper," J.O.H.N. said suddenly, as the intercom flashed in time with his words. Molly laughed a little and opened the folder in her arms to scan the papers inside.

"John, where is Mr Holmes?"

"Where he always is: the workshop."

Molly snapped her folder shut. "Ah."

Standing up straight, she brushed herself down and checked her watch. They were now an hour late.

Of course, by Sherlock Holmes standards, that was practically early.


	3. Chapter Two

The first thing she heard was banging. The second thing she heard was classical—Bach to be precise. _Cello Suite Prelude_. That was good. He never played Bach when he was really working; Mozart was left for that. Molly's fingers flew over the keypad as she typed in the password, and the door opened of its own accord.

The sight she was greeted with was usual—by Sherlock's standards of usual anyway. On one of the work benches, there was a variety of power tools and hammers filed away into a neat assembly line whilst bricks of all shapes, sizes and materials lay scattered on the workshop floor. Molly clambered over one particularly large brick and abruptly switched off the music, to which Sherlock instantly looked up. Molly paused, swallowing a little.

His skin was slick with sweat from the exertion, and he was wearing just a vest and pyjama bottoms. Underneath the safety goggles that he was wearing, his eyes shined from the exercise. Really, it was a far hotter sight than should've been allowed.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he said, pushing back his fringe and wiping at his forehead with a towel.

Molly cleared her throat a little and looked at her mobile to find a text from Lestrade.

_Where is he?!_

Molly brushed her hair out of her eyes and tapped back a quick reply. _Working on it - MH_

"Miss Hooper, I repeat: Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," she finally replied. "And you're an hour late."

"It's my plane; legally, it has to wait for me."

"Actually, no it doesn't. You leased it from the plane charter company, remember? You didn't buy it."

"Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me." Without warning, he swung the large hammer he was holding and landed it right in the middle of a large mortar brick. There was a loud _thunk_ as it cracked into two. Sherlock's face immediately broke into a grin.

Molly sighed.

"Sherlock, please. You can break bricks any time. Is this about the Bach?" she asked as Sherlock swung down on yet another mortar brick.

"No. Just experimenting."

Obviously, he wasn't going anywhere right now. "Okay, fine. But can I talk to you about a few things as you 'experiment'?"

"If you must."

There was another, louder _thunk_ as another, larger brick gave up the ghost.

"Maximum pressure used: 80%," J.O.H.N. bleeped as the computer monitor behind Sherlock's head drew up a 3D version of the now destroyed mortar brick.

"Good," Sherlock muttered and he turned away from Molly to swing at yet another brick, smaller this time.

Molly couldn't help but crack a small smile. Of all the bosses in all the world, she managed to get the childish one.

Still, it made for some interesting work days.

"Anderson called. He's got another buyer for the Vermeer in the wings."

"Doesn't matter. It's a fake."

"Sorry, what?"

"Anderson has been scammed—it took me a while to figure it out, but that rare Vermeer painting? It's a fake."

"Doesn't Anderson know?"

Sherlock whirled around. "Of course not. He's an idiot."

"Wait. How do you know it's a fake?"

"In the painting, there's a depiction of the Van Buren supernova, an astronomical event that took place about 100 years after that Vermeer was supposedly painted. And why would I want a fake in my art collection?"

"Understood. Do you want me to inform the police?"

"Already done," Sherlock said quickly, removing his goggles and dropping the hammer onto the floor before he moved over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water.

"Fine. But the Oxford graduation speech; they want—"

"That's in September. Why are you telling about it now?"

"In case you want to store it away some place in that mind palace of yours. Now tell me: are you going to do it or not? They need a concrete answer."

Sherlock didn't mention the unintended pun, but merely chuckled and swallowed the rest of his water. "Who's their back-up plan in case I refuse?"

"Same as always: Michael Palin."

"Why?"

"Because he's smart, has travelled a lot and is a national treasure. Now, are you going to do it or not?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, leaning against the sink with his head tilted to one side as he examined her. Molly shifted slightly; it wasn't the nicest feeling, being deduced. Every time he looked at her in that certain way, she felt like her whole life story was told to him, merely through the power of sight.

He pouted. "You have plans. You're never this urgent when you don't have plans. Why do you have plans?"

"Because it's my birthday. Are you doing the graduation speech or not?"

"It's your birthday. Already?"

"Yes. You—"

"I suppose you got yourself something 'nice' with the salary I pay you?"

"Yes, actually. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'm sure it was actually nice, and not your standards of nice."

Molly decided to dismiss the back-handed compliment and smiled instead. "Thank you sir. And it was."

Sherlock returned the smile with a small bow of the head. "You're welcome, Miss Hooper. Now, you said something about a plane?"

* * *

Lestrade checked his watch yet again and sighed heavily. For almost two hours, he had been waiting on this damn plane, and Sherlock still hadn't bothered to show up. Lestrade's phone bleeped yet again with another text message.

_I suppose my brother still hasn't arrived? M_

Lestrade did nothing but scoff and put his phone back in his pocket.

A car careened into the airfield and swiftly parked close to the plane's .

Sherlock stepped out, followed by his bodyguard who fetched the bags from the boot of the car as Sherlock bounded up the steps.

"Two hours!" Lestrade said above the whirring engines, but Sherlock merely shrugged in reply.

"Don't be obvious, Lestrade."

Lestrade's phone beeped again.

_Try not to punch him. He needs to be presentable. M_

* * *

The plane door closed behind Lestrade as Sherlock strode down the aisle of the plane and threw himself into a chair, his legs swinging over the arm of it. In turn, Lestrade settled into the chair opposite.

"Your brother's worried about you."

Sherlock let out a short laugh and took his phone from his pocket, shoving it across the table to Lestrade. On checking it, he saw that there were approximately 20 missed calls from one Mycroft Holmes.

"You see Lestrade, my brother's always worried about me. He's been worried about me since the day I was born."

"Some would say that was him being attentive."

"Others would say that was him being a control freak."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and shoved the phone back over to Sherlock, who quickly pocketed it.

"Look. Sherlock, you're a great man."

"And someday I could be a good one," Sherlock said in his typically bored tone of voice. "I know. I've heard it before."

Lestrade sighed and unfolded his newspaper. "I'm just saying. I mean, this whole lack of responsibility thing you have going on? That could get you killed one of these days."

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited this story. You are all wonderful, and I hope I can keep entertaining you with this fic. :)_


	4. Chapter Three

_Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan._

Despite Lestrade's insistence on conversation, the flight passed by surprisingly quickly, and on exiting the plane and descending the steps, Sherlock was greeted by a tanned General with unnaturally white teeth.

"Mr Holmes," he said as he took Sherlock's hand and shook it. "Always a pleasure."

Sherlock tried a polite smile and withdrew his hand, saying nothing.

In return, the general grinned, and Sherlock noticed how the man's teeth seemed to almost glow in the morning sun. "We look forward to your weapons presentation today."

Sherlock didn't have the heart to tell him that he felt the exact opposite.

* * *

The drive to the intended location was a short one; the drive back would be much longer, the General had claimed, mainly because of the separate route they would be taking. Sherlock however paid little attention to the general's words and instead focused on remembering what he had been rehearsing in his head for the last few hours.

When they got there, he discovered that three Jericho missiles were already set up and waiting. All that was needed was him. So with a sigh, he moved past the group of high-ranking soldiers—who had all, for some reason, dressed in their formal attire—and stood before them on the makeshift stage which had also been set up before his arrival. It was all very neat, very tidy and extremely ordinary. Sherlock repressed the urge to roll his eyes and began the presentation.

"Is it better to be feared or respected? A difficult question, but a simple answer: why not both? Therefore, with that in mind, Holmes Industries presents—as part of its brand new Freedom Line and developed by myself and a team of experts—the first missile system that incorporates our proprietary repulsor technology, ensuring that this is a weapon you only have to fire once."

A whirring noise filled the air as the three missiles turned and aimed. White hot flames burst out and the three missiles immediately shot off into the air. With a little smirk on his lips, Sherlock turned back to the now enraptured officers and generals.

"Gentlemen, I present to you… the Jericho."

Behind him, there was a surge of wind and a distant, thudding bang as the Jericho did its job. He didn't even have to look at the officers to tell that they were impressed. Sherlock bowed his head a little and jumped off the stage. Almost immediately, his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, hey. It's me."

"Victor. You're awake."

"Of course I am!" Victor replied, though he was too chirpy for having just woken up. Victor however answered Sherlock's thoughts with his next sentence. "I couldn't sleep without knowing how we did."

"Oh. Well, it went as it always does."

"So…?"

"It went predictably well."

"That's great? Looks like it'll be an early Christmas, huh?"

"Apparently so," Sherlock muttered as he clambered into the Humvee that was waiting for him.

"Great job anyhow. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sherlock hung up without saying anything. But if he'd known that within twenty minutes he would be captured by Afghan terrorists, he might've said goodbye.


	5. Chapter Four

Pain. That was the first thing he felt. A never-ending pain, slap bang in the middle of his chest.

That, plus cold. Wherever he was, he was somewhere without insulation. The sound of the explosion still echoed in his ears—as well as the sound of Arabic. Fierce, relentless Arabic. At the back of his neck, he could still feel where the cold machine gun had dug itself into him.

As he came around, he saw that there was an old car battery near him, still working. It probably wasn't important though. On his other side, he could see a male silhouette, small and skinny.

Slowly, he tried to sit up. The silhouette laughed.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Choosing to ignore the man's advice, Sherlock sat up straight. The pain however, was still there.

Confusion followed when he tapped at his chest to find that it wasn't flesh he touched, but a hard lump of cold metal, swathed underneath bandages. With more strength than he knew he had, he tore at the material. What he saw caused his breath to catch. It was an electromagnet, bedded deep inside his chest and hooked up to the car battery he previously dismissed.

The man smiled as he turned to face him, half of his jaw covered in thick shaving foam.

"I suppose you know what that is?"

"Who are you?"

The man smiled and gently washed at his chin. "Yinsen. And I've just saved your life."

Sherlock frowned. "How?"

"Well, I removed as much shrapnel from your chest as I could, but there's still some inside. It's headed towards your heart."

"Well, that's comforting. You still haven't explained this," Sherlock added, gesturing to the electromagnet.

"That is keeping you alive, my friend."

"I don't have friends."

"Well, friend or no friend, that electromagnet is keeping you alive. You might as well get used to it," Yinsen said. Sherlock sighed, his breath forming small clouds in the air and his gaze fell on a small camera fixed to the entrance to their prison. Yinsen grinned.

"That's right. Smile. Make them think you like it here."

"Can they hear us?" Sherlock asked, with his eyes still fixed on the camera.

"No. But how can I tell, I don't hear you ask? Early on in my imprisonment, I said "curse the Ten Rings" in Arabic. I said it five times over three days. Not once did they come to beat me."

Sherlock let out a small laugh. Knowing that there was no audio supervision was perhaps just a little sliver of light in the darkness he now found himself in.

Yelling sounded, and Yinsen's smile was instantly gone from his face. Instead, he gripped Sherlock by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

"Do as I do, understand?" he said, raising his arms above his head. "Do as I do!"

The doors were flung open and a group of men stormed inside, all of them carrying guns of all shapes and sizes. A mixture of anger and shame stung at Sherlock as he realised; the guns they were carrying were all emblazoned with the logo for Holmes Industries. Within the group of men, one stepped forward. He was instantly recognizable. Sherlock had seen his face often in the news or splashed all over various tabloids. It was the face of Raza; the power hungry and merciless leader of the Ten Rings.

"Welcome, Mr Holmes. The most famous mass murderer in the history of the United Kingdom."

Sherlock bit back the urge to correct him. Technically, he was the most famous mass murderer in the history of England.

Unaware, Raza continued. "We are honoured to have such a man as our captive. Of course, such a murderer as you Mr Holmes must be aware of our true intentions of bringing you here."

"I can't say that I do."

"The missile you demonstrated today—the Jericho—you must build it again. For us."

For a long moment, Sherlock stared at Raza. His intent was genuine; that was for definite. What was also for definite was the destruction that would be unleashed if Sherlock complied. His eyes steely, he looked back at his captor.

"What if I refuse?"

The punch delivered to his gut was hard and swift, and he doubled back, winded. Raza lashed out again, once again punching him in the stomach. Sherlock's legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor with a groan.

But Raza was not finished yet. Again and again, he kicked and hit at Sherlock, cursing at him in fast Arabic.

"How can he make your missile if he is dead?!" Yinsen yelled suddenly, and silence fell over the group. Slowly, Raza turned towards him, saying nothing. He turned his glare towards his men.

After a moment, he spat orders in Arabic and the men descended on both Yinsen and the beaten Sherlock. Once again, Sherlock was met with darkness as the sack was drawn over his head and he bit back a groan as he was tugged to his feet and steered through the caves.

But his mind couldn't be quietened, however much he wanted it to be. It raced, automatically tracing and counting the route taken.

_41 steps straight ahead._

_16 steps, from the door._

_Fork right._

_33 steps. Turn right._

Light blinded him, making him blink. But when his eyes became accustomed to the sun, his heart dropped. Everywhere he looked, he saw nothing but crate after crate of his weapons, the logo incriminating him for what he and his company really was: warmongers, reaping in the benefits of waste, war and blood.

Raza laughed coldly as he stepped forward into the compound, arms wide as he turned to face Sherlock once more. If his expression could've been compared to anything, it could've been compared to a child running around their favourite sweet shop.

"What do you think?"

Sherlock decided not to satisfy him with a reply. Raza merely sighed and lowered his arms.

"I see. So, violence has not worked, and neither has the cold hard truth. Perhaps, Mr Holmes, we should give peace a try?"

When Sherlock let himself nod reluctantly, Raza grinned. "Good. Now, you want freedom. I want my Jericho, and this compound has everything you need to start work. Give me my Jericho, and I shall give you your freedom."

All this talk about truth, and yet Raza was prepared to lie through his teeth. _He won't let me go_, Sherlock thought bitterly as he took his hand. _He'll kill me._

And so it was with a heavy heart that Sherlock shook the man's hand.

* * *

"He'll kill you," Yinsen said quietly as he gently stirred a small pot of soup over the now alight furnace. Sherlock laughed bitterly.

"You don't think I know that? You don't think that as soon as he talked about peace that I was a walking corpse? Missile or no missile, I'm dead."

"I have seen for myself how merciless the Ten Rings can be. Do not think that I don't understand your situation."

Sherlock scowled and wrapped his blanket tighter around himself. "You don't understand anything. Because of my father's legacy, I now have a death sentence hanging over my head. I—"

"No, it is not your father's legacy that has done this. It is your legacy." Yinsen was angry now, his voice sharp, and his language blunt. "Did your father put those guns in their hands?"

"I didn't either!"

"But your legacy did!" Yinsen shouted. "Your weapons have enabled murderers like this to destroy whole villages. Do you want that to be your legacy? Do you?!"

He considered yelling back. He considered screaming. And not for the first time, he considered escape.

Anything—even death—was better than providing thugs such as the Ten Rings with such a destructive force as the Jericho. On paper, an escape would be easy. His mind already knew the route. In real life however… he wouldn't last a minute; and that was if he was optimistic.

Then there was the compound. He'd barely got a glance of any possible exits—only ones that came with the incredibly high risk of death. If he was honest with himself, the only way to get out of this hell was to have weapons and a way to fly.

_So why don't you?_ asked a tiny voice at the back of his head. _They've got everything you need…_

"Yinsen…" Sherlock said softly, looking up at him. "Have you ever felt the need to fly?"


	6. Chapter Five

For being such thugs, Raza and his men were remarkably organised when it came to bringing together the materials Sherlock required. Daily, he would send off a list—translated by Yinsen—and by evening, the materials would be piled high in crates, waiting for him to get to work. It was only a matter of days before he had a work station set up and a group of Afghan thugs waiting for their missile.

Usually, he preferred to stay silent when he worked, but Yinsen was friendly enough and Sherlock soon found himself engaging in daily conversations with the man. It was odd really, how calm Yinsen was, considering his position. He was nothing more than a resource to these people, someone they could go to when they acquired wounds that couldn't be explained away to official doctors.

"How many languages do you speak?" Sherlock asked once, after seeing Yinsen converse easily with another man in Russian as he fixed a gunshot wound to the man's arm.

Yinsen shrugged as he cleaned himself up. "A lot. But apparently not enough for this place. They speak Arabic, Urdu, Dari, Pashto, Mongolian, Farsi and as you saw just now, Russian."

"It's probably to reinforce the hierarchy."

"True," Yinsen shrugged. "But these people come from all over. It seems that violence unites them."

Sherlock carefully removed the innards of the torpedo he was working on, shaking his head. "No. It's not violence. It's something else."

"Like what? What else could unite these people?"

"Violence, hatred. Those are paralytics," Sherlock said. "But love… that's an even greater incentive."

Yinsen laughed once, the sound short and sharp. "Love? You think these people can love? You have been in these caves far too long."

"Just think about it. So many people sit around, complaining about the state of the world, but in the end, they do nothing. These men go out in war zones and risk their lives every day—just like the average soldier. And why? Because in a twisted way, they love their country and their culture and are willing to protect it at any cost."

For a long while, Yinsen was quiet as he considered Sherlock's words. "I can see that. But that doesn't excuse them."

"I'm not saying it does. I've seen love in many forms, Yinsen. These caves contain the worst sort of love; a love people would die for. Would kill for."

"Sometimes that kind of love isn't such a bad thing," Yinsen said after a moment. Sherlock only smiled and went back to his work, deftly dismantling the machinery in front of him.

"You know, we might be more productive if you include me in the planning process."

"I know."

"So… what are we looking for?"

Again, Sherlock didn't reply but just smiled wider as he finally found what he was looking for. Very carefully, he removed the tiny blue chip within the machinery and held it up for Yinsen to see.

"This. Palladium, 0.15 grams. However, I need about 1.6 grams of this, at least. And there's 11 other torpedoes still waiting."

Yinsen didn't need telling twice, and with rapid efficiency, he got to work.

* * *

Day and night, they worked diligently on their creation. It was on the third week that their work finally came to fruition.

"Wow," Yinsen murmured as Sherlock put together the finishing touches on the project. "That doesn't look like a Jericho missile."

"Of course it wouldn't, because this is a miniaturized arc reactor. Before you ask, it's for this," he said, tapping at the electromagnet in his chest. Yinsen frowned.

"But what could it generate?"

"About three gigajoules per second."

"My God… that could run your heart for fifty lifetimes."

Sherlock smirked and looked at Yinsen, his eyes glittering happily. "Perhaps. But I'm not chasing lifetimes."

When Yinsen's only reaction was to frown, Sherlock reached into his jacket and brought out a sheaf of papers, flattening them out. For a moment, Yinsen scanned them and eventually let out a laugh of sheer disbelief.

"This is insane, Sherlock. Certifiably insane. But also quite brilliant."

* * *

They got away with it for weeks, and via the use of a plan that Yinsen had ingeniously come up with: he would pretend to work on the Jericho whilst Sherlock continued with the building of their actual project—the suit that would get them out of there.

It was late into the twelfth week of his imprisonment that it happened. At the time, Sherlock and Yinsen had taken a break from their activities to play a game of chess, and Yinsen was losing.

"I still think of them sometimes," Yinsen had said suddenly. When Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion, Yinsen continued.

"My family. Back in Gulmira, the town I come from, I had a family. A wife and three children. When the Ten Rings attacked, we were separated. I haven't seen them since."

"You wish to see them again?"

"No. I know I will see them again. I will make sure of it."

Yinsen's words hung in the air between them, and Sherlock frowned. There was a fierce determination there that he hadn't yet seen from the quiet, calm doctor. And it was that determination that told Sherlock in what way Yinsen had become separated from them. It was strange in a way. Sherlock almost envied him, in a way; in all his life, he'd never met someone who provided him with such a fire as Yinsen now displayed.

He remembered how he'd spoken of love; how he'd dismissed a love someone would kill for as the most dangerous kind of love. Now he saw that he was right, but he was also so very wrong because if a man went into a situation knowing exactly what his fate would be, where was the danger? If anything, that danger was nothing more than… inevitability.

Yinsen broke into a smile. "And how about you? Do you have a family?"

"I have a brother. Is that enough?"

"By the way you speak of him, clearly not. Anyone else?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced at the chessboard. They had only been playing for a little under ten minutes, but already, Sherlock had Yinsen surrounded. It would just take one move for him to claim the game as his own.

_Family was a strange word_, he thought. The Holmes had never been ones to openly welcome the idea of close familial relationships; his brother had seemed to reject the concept from the moment he was born. His mother too—she had always been perfectly put together in terms of aesthetic and manners, but if she'd had any maternal instincts within her, she had kept them well hidden. Their father was barely around to even find out if he had any love for both his children and his wife. He was too focused on chasing after the largest pay packet and the prettiest women.

How could family be defined anyway? The common way in which to define it was to say that your family was often the person you felt most at home with. If he was going to follow that path then, he would have to say that his family was only one person.

"Molly."

"What?" Yinsen said, looking up. Sherlock blinked. Had he said that out loud?

"Oh—nothing. Nothing at all. Now—"

The doors to their cell slammed open. Instantly, both Yinsen and Sherlock were on their feet with their hands above their heads. Raza strode forward, followed on by a group of his men. On seeing Yinsen and Sherlock standing with their hands behind their heads, he broke into a far too genial smile.

"Relax, please. I have only come to talk."

Yinsen nodded once, and slowly, Sherlock lowered his arms.

"You know," Raza said, "the bow and arrow was once the pinnacle of weapons technology. With it, Genghis Khan was able to rule from the Pacific to the Ukraine; an empire twice the size of Alexander the Great and four times the size of the Roman Empire. But, as you well know Mr Holmes, everything must evolve. And now, whoever holds your latest weapons in their hands are the ones to rule these great lands."

Gradually, he turned to face Sherlock. The determination in his eyes was almost savage.

"Soon, it will be my turn."

Now, he rounded on Yinsen. This time, he spoke in Arabic. Sherlock didn't know what was being said to hear the vitriol in his voice.

"We're working hard," Yinsen said carefully, but his voice was shaky. Raza raised an eyebrow and stepped forward. Again, the vitriol was plain to hear. Yinsen looked away and repeated his previous statement.

But Raza was not satisfied. He nodded once at his men and barked an order in Russian. The front man stepped forward and grabbed Yinsen's shoulders, pushing him onto his knees.

Raza laughed as he picked up a pair of tongs and held them over the hot flame of the furnace. "You think I'm a fool, Yinsen? I'll get the truth."

As he turned, the tongs now glowing red with heat, Sherlock could see that the genial smile had returned.

"Open his mouth."

The man holding Yinsen gripped at his jaw, almost wrenching Yinsen's lips apart. Raza's smile widened as he advanced. Once again, he spoke in Arabic, his speech slow and soft.

Sherlock's heart was almost in his throat. Yinsen may have been willing to die, but he was not going to stand back and watch a man get tortured. He had seen too many horrors, sent too many men to their deaths to do so.

Quickly, he stepped forward. The men immediately raised their guns, all aiming at him. Raza turned to look at him.

"Building the missile takes time," Sherlock said. He was surprised at how calm he sounded. "Especially if I do it on my own."

"Meaning?" Raza said, the glowing red tongs inches away from Yinsen's face.

"Meaning that I need him. I need his assistance."

Raza's eyebrows knitted together into a frown, but he did not put down the tongs. Neither he nor Sherlock broke their gaze. Finally, Raza threw the tongs onto the ground.

"You have one night to assemble my missile," he said darkly, and leaving no chance for a reply, he left. His men filed out after him and the doors were shut behind them with a loud, echoing _thud_.

Yinsen was still on his knees as Sherlock stared at the closed doors.

"Thank you," Yinsen said softly and he struggled back onto his feet, still shaken from the confrontation. Sherlock continued to watch the closed doors. One night. That was all he had.

But a lot could happen in one night.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'd just like to say a big THANK YOU to everyone who has favourited, followed and reviewed this fic so far, including _IceQueenForLife_, _Potix_, _LvPayne_, _Lila Nightengale_ and _Brittyboo88_. Thank you so much for your kind words. They mean a lot.


	7. Chapter Six

_**Author's Note:**_ This was probably one of the harder/hardest chapters to write, considering that Sherlock isn't exactly the most action-y of heroes (he is very cheekbone-y though), so it was hard to write this and not have him be _too_ OOC. Still, I hope it works and thank you to everyone who has recently reviewed/favourited/followed this fic. You're all lovely and I wish I could hug you in thanks.

Lastly, don't forget to let me know what you think!

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had never worked harder in his life. All throughout the night, he battered and hammered until he was dripping with sweat from the heat of the furnace. Yinsen tried to help, but was often met with a sharp, cross bark of "leave" as Sherlock continued to work, almost like a man possessed.

He didn't know what time it was when he finally finished, but neither he nor Yinsen cared and together, they prepared the suit. First, his hands were bandaged and gloved to cover all the tiny wounds and cuts he had acquired during his work. Second, he stepped into the suit and with Yinsen's quick hands and fast mind; the suit was quickly on its way to being fully assembled.

"Are you okay? Can you move?" he asked when the suit was near completion.

Sherlock nodded, as he retraced the route in his head.

_41 steps straight ahead, then 16 steps. From the door. Fork right. Then another 33 steps. Turn right._

Hurrying footsteps sounded outside the door, and a voice shouted at them, speaking fast and called their names.

Yinsen paled, and looked up to Sherlock. "He's speaking Hungarian—I don't—"

"Just say something. Anything is better than nothing."

After a moment, Yinsen looked towards the door, shouting quickly. The man though did not seem satisfied, and he continued shouting.

"What the hell did you say?"

"It doesn't matter," Yinsen said, turning on the computer behind him. The man behind the door continued shouting, and there was a clunk as the door was unlocked. Sherlock closed his eyes, preparing. Sure enough, the doors were blown off their hinges as the bomb exploded.

"Yinsen, I'd advise you to hurry. That would have caused quite a stir," Sherlock said, to which Yinsen grinned, and initialized the power sequence on the computer.

There was more yelling as more men advanced through the caves, and Yinsen's growing panic was obvious.

"We need more time, Sherlock. We need more time."

"No, we do not. Yinsen, stay here. You will stick to the plan; that's what we agreed. Stick to the—"

It was no use. Yinsen was already gone, grabbing a machine gun as he went, firing it at will at anything that moved, his yells bouncing off the walls. Sherlock could do nothing but watch as the progress bar inched along the screen.

_It is not death, nor is it danger. It is nothing more than inevitability._

* * *

They were running scared. Yinsen let a laugh, one that suited a crazed maniac more than the quiet doctor he used to be, and continued running.

He only stopped when he came around the corner and was met with a line of the Ten Rings, all of them with their guns aimed squarely at him.

They probably thought he would scream, or beg for his life.

Instead, he threw down his gun and closed his eyes. At this moment, he could think of only one thing: his family. It would be okay. At least now, he would see them again.

The shots never came. Darkness fell on the caves, and there was silence as the men whispered among one another. Raza suddenly snapped at them, ordering them to go and see what had happened. Three men jogged past Yinsen and advanced through the caves.

What followed were the sounds of echoing screams, which were cut short by bullets firing. Then the sounds of machines whirring and the clanking of metal.

A chuckle bled out of Yinsen's mouth, unable to be quelled. Raza stormed forward and grabbed Yinsen by the collar of his shirt, almost wrenching him off his feet.

"What is it? What happened?"

Yinsen glared down at the man who had kept him prisoner for over a year. What he said next was with the tone of ultimate satisfaction. "We beat you."

* * *

_41 steps straight ahead._

Men stormed at him, shooting uselessly at the metal. He continued surging forward, knocking the men to the ground as he went.

_Then 16 steps, from the door._

He turned, and found another group of men facing him. They were more afraid than the first group, and so the bullets came faster. Again, he knocked them to the ground as he turned.

_Fork right. Then another 33 steps._

The further he advanced through the caves, the more afraid the men became. Akin to mice, they scattered, making their way through the caves and away from him.

When he came to the entrance of the cave however, there was one man who had more courage than any of his man. Raza grinned, and aimed. Sherlock however, was too quick. Opening a section of the right arm of the suit, he too aimed and fired. The weapon inside exploded on impact and knocked Raza to the ground.

"Sherlock…" the voice came from behind him. It was soft, and weakened. Yinsen.

He turned to see that Yinsen was lying against sacks of grain, blood seeping from his shirt where he had been shot in the stomach multiple times. Even if Sherlock did manage to get him out of the caves, he would be dead within a matter of minutes.

Yinsen almost managed to crack a smile as Sherlock lifted the helmet from his face.

"Certifiably insane," he murmured.

Sherlock was never good with emotions. He never had been. And now, faced with a dying man; a man who had saved his life in more ways than one, he could think of nothing else to say but the words "Thank you."

Yinsen's weak smile widened. "Don't waste your life, Sherlock. Find a purpose. Just don't…"

He never got to finish his sentence. His head rolled back, his body now still in death.

For a moment, Sherlock did nothing, numb from the sight of his former friend now nothing more than a cold corpse.

_Don't waste your life._

Determination steeled him. Slowly, he rounded on the mouth of the cave's entrance and moved forward.

* * *

Outside, the rest of the Ten Rings were waiting in apprehension, their fingers resting uneasily on the triggers of their weapons.

As soon as he appeared at the mouth of the cave, bullets rang out through the air, bouncing off the hard iron metal that Sherlock was clad in. And for all that time, he did nothing. Just stood there.

Finally, they stopped. Sherlock looked around at them, and smirked. Now it was his turn.

Flames spewed out of the suit's arms, engulfing the compound in fire. Every Holmes Industries weapon he saw, he burnt. It was his company that had put them there; it only seemed logical that he would be the one to destroy them.

Screams surrounded him, and the sound of bullets firing rang out once again as the men tried to futilely defend themselves.

It was definitely time to go. Opening up another panel on his suit, Sherlock flicked a switch and all at once, he rose up into the air, escaping the flames and explosions that now surrounded the compound.

* * *

His flight lasted a grand total of fifteen minutes, until quite literally, he fell to earth with a bump.

Carefully, Sherlock removed what parts of the suit still clung to him and stood up to look around at the sight around him, even though he was still dazed from the sudden fall.

He was in the desert somewhere, quite a distance away from the compound he had been trapped inside. Scattered around him were the remnants of his suit.

_Not bad for three months work_, he thought and with a smile, he turned away and started walking.

* * *

Only a day passed before they found him, and when the helicopters circled overhead, Sherlock laughed with relief. Drained of energy, he collapsed to his knees and watched as the first helicopter landed, and Lestrade jumped out, followed by three more soldiers.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Did I miss anything?"

Lestrade laughed and gently helped him to his feet, guiding him towards the helicopter.

"I assume my brother has called," Sherlock said over the sound of the whirring helicopters.

"Bit more than that," he said, flicking a grin as the two of them clambered inside the aircraft. Immediately, Sherlock groaned and slumped back in his seat. Twirling a cane between his fingers, Mycroft smiled; and of course, the gesture was void of any positive emotion.

"Welcome back, brother."


	8. Chapter Seven

_High Wycombe, RAF Air Base._

Behind a series of steel barriers, a crowd of reporters and cameramen were reporting on the breaking news story of the moment: the return of the great Sherlock Holmes.

"After being missing in action for three months, Sherlock Holmes has been found…"

"It's believed that he was being held under capture by the notorious gang the Ten Rings…"

"No official report has yet been given by the government, but Mr Victor Trevor of Holmes Industries has released a short statement..."

"It states that he and everyone else at Holmes Industries are proud of Mr Holmes for holding up under duress and that they are all eager to be reunited with him at the first opportunity…"

A distance away, Molly stood beside a sleek black car. She checked her phone again, but there were still no new messages. Just one text from Lestrade, sent late the previous night.

_Sherlock's been found. We'll be flying him into High Wycombe tomorrow morning, 9 o'clock._

She couldn't really describe the elation she had felt on seeing that text. Yes, it was nice to know that she wasn't going to lose her job, but more than anything, she was just happy that he was alive and well after three months trapped in captivity. She had genuinely thought that she'd never see him again.

She imagined what it would be like when she saw him again. They'd probably exchange a few quick quips and then they'd get into the car and drive to the hospital. Sherlock Holmes, after all, was not a man driven by emotions, and however much she was tempted to do so, she doubted he would take kindly to her throwing her arms around him as soon as she saw him. Plus, Sherlock already had enough media attention as it was. She wasn't going to subject him to any more of it.

The plane hoved into view, and as it descended onto the airfield, Molly bit back a smile. The doors opened, and Lestrade appeared, followed by Sherlock. His left arm hung in a sling, and he was dressed in a newly pressed suit.

_Still no tie_, Molly thought to herself, somewhat amused by the fact. She watched as Sherlock and Lestrade descended the steps and as cameras flashed and reporters stepped out of the way of their cameramen in order to allow them to catch a glimpse of the returning Mr Holmes.

He however, ignored any questions they may have had and approached Molly, his trademark smirk on his lips.

"I see you've been crying," he said matter-of-factly, tugging slightly at the jacket that rested against his shoulders. Molly stepped forward and adjusted it for him, smiling up at him.

"Welcome back, Mr Holmes."

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. "It's good to see you, Miss Hooper."

Molly blinked a little at this. Previously, Sherlock would've brushed away her sentiment with a sarcastic remark and got inside the car. She stared at him for a second, and now she saw it—saw that there was something that had changed within him. Whatever had happened in Afghanistan, it had affected him, deeply. Whether it was for the better, she didn't know.

The moment was broken when Sherlock broke their gaze and strode past her, getting inside the car. Molly quickly followed on, shutting the passenger door behind her.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"St. Bart's hospital please—" Molly started, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No."

Molly tried to argue with him, but he still shook his head.

"I've been in captivity for little under three months, and now there are things I need to do. One of those things is for you to call for a press conference."

"What? Why a press conference?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, giving Molly a look. "Just do it, Miss Hooper."

After a moment, Molly looked back at the driver as she tapped out an e-mail on her phone. "Well, then. Mr Holmes would like to go to the Holmes Industries offices please."

If there was one thing she had learnt in her six years of working with Sherlock Holmes, it was that when he wanted you to do something, you did it.

* * *

Just an hour and a half later, Sherlock's car pulled up to the front entrance of the offices to Stark International, and he was greeted by a line of press reporters and at the very front, Victor who smiled and patted Sherlock on the back in the way he was predisposed to do. Sherlock subtly shook him off and smiled politely at him.

"Victor."

"Sherlock, it's good to see you. But I thought we were meeting at the hospital?"

"I had a change of plans," Sherlock said and he ventured into the building. Molly and Victor quickly followed on.

Sherlock strode through the building until they got to the conference room, where more reporters were waiting. On the stage, a small panel had been set up. Sherlock and Victor took their seats as Molly stood at the back, watching as the press conference began. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that a short man with dark, slicked back hair was watching her. She chose to ignore him. It was that decision that caused the man to approach her.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Uh, yes," Molly replied, smiling brightly. The man nodded slightly, but didn't smile.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Oh, err; I'm not with the press conference…"

"I know. I'm not a press reporter. I'm Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

Molly bit back a giggle and accepted the card that the man now held out to her.

"That's uh, quite a long name, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Not at all. We're working on it."

Molly nodded and scanned the card. She looked to the man. "Sorry to tell you this, but we've been approached already by MI6, the FBI, even the CIA…"

"No, Miss Hooper, we're a separate division. With a more… specific focus," the man said, smiling nicely. "All we need to do is meet with Mr Holmes and debrief him about the circumstances of his escape."

Molly sighed a little. Clearly this man wasn't going away until she said something. She tried a polite smile. "I'll put something in the book."

The man nodded once, pleased. "Thank you."

And with that, he was gone from the room, shutting the door behind him. Molly shoved his card into the back pocket of her trouser suit and shook her head. _Weird_.

Her attention was brought back to the press conference however when Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I suppose now is a good time to start. Any questions?"

There was silence in the room. Eventually, one bold reporter held up his hand. Victor nodded, allowing him to speak.

"What happened?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but instead looked away, down at his hands. Victor let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Perhaps a broader question is in order? Anyone else?"

"No," Sherlock said suddenly, looking up at the sea of reporters in front of him. "It's fine."

Victor leaned closer to him, whispering in his ear. "Are you sure about this?"

He didn't receive a reply. Sherlock instead continued to look at the reporters, taking in every little detail about them. Finally, he sighed. "I've always had certain questions about this company. But I've never had any answers. Three months in captivity however, did lead me to seek out some of those answers. And they were not answers that were entirely pleasing to hear."

There were murmurings going on now, between the reporters. Even the cameramen were starting to frown and turn to their colleagues, muttering and wondering about him. Sherlock pressed on. He had things to say, and he would say them.

"Newspapers have labelled me in the past as the 'Merchant of Death'. I never took that title in any real seriousness, but sometimes… well, sometimes, a joke can reveal the coldest truth. I witnessed a good man die through use of the weapons I created, and the nickname I had previously ignored rang painfully true."

The murmurings had turned into mutterings now. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes as his next sentence fluttered from his lips.

"Effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Holmes Industries…"

Pandemonium erupted. Whereas before only one of the reporters had been brave enough to speak, all the reporters now had their hands in the air, tripping over themselves to try and have their voices heard. Sherlock glanced towards Victor, who was now almost white in the face with shock.

"I'm sure you can wrap this up," he said, smiling widely as he tapped Victor on the shoulder. With that, he left the stage and departed from the room.

* * *

He heard the scattering of running heels as Molly chased after him. He however continued striding down the corridor.

"Sherlock!" she called, but he still continued walking. From behind him, he heard her scoff in frustration, and suddenly, he felt her hand clamp down on his bandaged shoulder. Letting out a cry of pain, he whirled around.

"Molly, what the hell are you doing?"

"No, what the hell are _you_ doing?" she retorted, smacking him on the arm with her notebook. "You've just shut down your father's legacy!"

Sherlock didn't have time for this. So he stepped forward, intentionally looming over her.

"Do not question me, Miss Hooper. I pay you to be my assistant, nothing more. If I wanted advice, I'd get an advisor."

Molly's jaw locked as she fought not to retort. Sherlock smiled coldly.

"Good afternoon, Miss Hooper."

She swallowed a little, and on glancing down, he could how she was clenching her fist slightly. Obviously trying not to slap him.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes," she said finally. Sherlock's cold smile immediately dropped and he turned on his heel, stalking back down the corridor.

After a moment, Molly leaned against the wall as her phone beeped once again. With a heavy sigh, she checked it.

_I want to talk to him. Now. M_


	9. Chapter Eight

It wasn't to Sherlock's surprise when he stepped inside the Holmes Industries factory to find that his brother was already there, his mouth turned downward into a frown as he stood in the middle of the factory floor.

"Brother, dear," Sherlock said brightly as he moved towards him. "I suppose Molly told you where I was. Remind me to tell her she's fired."

After a moment of silence, Mycroft deigned to give him a sideways glance.

"No, there'll be no need for that. Your assistant mistakenly thought it was wise not to tell me where you were headed. Remember Sherlock; you aren't the only genius in this family."

At this, Sherlock smiled, even though guilt pinched at him. She was still so loyal, even after he'd spoken to her like she was dirt under his shoe. Mycroft continued, choosing to ignore his brother's feelings for the time being.

"I suppose you know what this means for the company."

Sherlock shrugged off. "I'll take a guess at a 50 to 60 point drop on the stock market."

Mycroft laughed a little and turned to face his brother fully. "You really don't understand how this works, do you?"

"Don't patronise me Mycroft. Do you think I would do something like this if I didn't understand the consequences?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. I relinquished the rights of this company to you in the faith that you would continue our father's legacy and keep it alive, not trample all over it like a child having a tantrum because they've realised Santa Claus doesn't exist."

Sherlock gasped mockingly. "What do you mean, Santa doesn't exist?"

Mycroft sighed heavily, but said nothing. He didn't really have a chance, for the factory door had swung open and Victor had strode inside.

"What. The. Bloody. _Hell_ was that?! We're a weapons company Sherlock—"

"That, as of today, no longer makes weapons." Sherlock shot Victor a look. "I know. I was there, remember?"

Victor said nothing to this, shaking his head a little. He had known since childhood that Sherlock had been an erratic soul, but he'd never thought that he would be so erratic as to shut down the main division of his own business.

Eventually, Sherlock sighed. "I know what I'm doing."

"Okay, sure," Victor said. "Let's say you do know what you're doing; what are we, as a weapons company that doesn't make weapons, going to do? What can we possibly make?"

Sherlock didn't have to say anything. One look towards the arc reactor looming high above them, beating out a pure beating heart said everything. Victor let out a groan.

"The arc reactor? I'm sorry, but that was built as a… publicity stunt, nothing more."

"Victor, considering that my brother currently has a miniature one powering his heart, I suppose he'd be inclined to disagree with you," Mycroft said with another cold smile which only widened when Sherlock threw a venomous glare his way.

"Lestrade told you—didn't he? Bloody hell, I should've known…"

Victor shook his head, confused. "Wait, what? A miniature… what?"

Without a word, Sherlock quickly unbuttoned his shirt and turned towards Victor, showing him the arc reactor. In response, Victor immediately let out a laugh before he deftly buttoned the shirt back up.

"Sherlock, look. You and I, ever since we were kids, have been a team."

"I wouldn't say a team…" Sherlock muttered. "Not unless said team was Batman and Robin…"

"_Anyway_. What happened today was huge, for everyone. Not just for you, not just for me, but for everyone."

"So?"

"So, I think it would be best if you kept quiet for the next few days or so. In the meantime, I'll discuss everything with the board of directors—I have some clout with them, they'll listen to me."

"What, so they won't listen to me?"

"Sherlock, the last time you attended a board of directors meeting, you told them that five of them were stuck in unhappy marriages, and that two of those five were having an affair with one another."

"They were!"

"That doesn't matter. Accusing people of something they've done isn't the greatest way to get them on side, you know," Victor said, laughing a little.

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes scanning him. Just for a second, there had been something a bit too genial about Victor's smile. Victor however, merely tapped him on the shoulder again and bid his goodbyes to both Holmes brothers and headed for the exit, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft stepped forward, watching the factory exit with his trademark superior gaze. "If I were you, brother, I'd be rather careful from now on." He turned back to Sherlock, eyebrow raised. "You have made yourself a target; try not to get hit too hard."


	10. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note: **_I'm so sorry about the lack of updates lately. I've been readjusting to university life and there were also some personal problems I had to deal with. God also decided to bestow me with a cold and a croaky throat, joy of joys. But I'm on the mend (so to speak), therefore the updates should be more regular this time._

_Don't forget to leave a comment - your reviews mean a lot, and I love to hear your thoughts._

* * *

Molly may not have been as adept as figuring things out as Sherlock was, but she could definitely see whenever something was wrong. And ever since the day of the press conference, something had been very, very wrong indeed. In fact, on returning from the factory—"block all texts and calls from my brother from now on," he'd barked at her—he had quickly descended the steps to his workshop and hadn't come back down. Any food she sent down or brought down would be waved away or dismissed with a simple claim: "I'm busy".

It seemed then that Sherlock was in 'inventing mode'; and Molly had grown wise enough to know not to disturb the man. Instead, she diligently continued with her own work. As soon as the announcement had come from Sherlock's tongue, it seemed as if her phone hadn't stopped ringing or bleeping with notifications of e-mails and texts. Much of her time was taken up with politely rejecting every offer of an interview and placating the newspapers and magazines with an assurance that Holmes Industries would soon release an official statement. The rest of her time was filled with writing said statement.

Her phone beeped yet again with the notification of another email. With a sigh, Molly turned away from her laptop and checked it.

_From: Kitty Riley  
To: Molly Hooper_

_Seeing as you have previously refused my offer of an interview with Mr Holmes, I thought you might like a quick look at this._

Molly's jaw clenched slightly as she clicked on the link. It was little more than an ordinary finance programme, with various analysts and bankers sat around a glass panel. It was the subject matter however that had led the video to draw in little over 900,000 views and counting.

"So," the presenter—a typically bland financial news reporter—began. "Holmes Industries."

One of the panellists let out a bark of a laugh. "I doubt that they can be considered an industry anymore! The CEO has cut off their most dominant and financially stable department. I'd say that their best bet is to sell, sell, sell and jump ship as soon as possible."

"No, no," an old woman said, shaking her head a little at her fellow panellist. "That would be nothing more than reactionary."

"Reactionary? Their CEO cuts off the most viable division of the company and you're advising them to be reactionary? They can do little else!"

Molly sighed and closed the internet window. There was really no point in watching something which told her that which she already knew, and especially when it had been sent from a woman who had clearly sent it out of no reason other than spite.

The ringing of her phone cut off her negative mood. Quickly, she answered it.

"Hello?"

"Miss Hooper," Sherlock replied. "How big are your hands?"

"Er… they're quite petite. Why?"

"Quite petite? I suppose that'll have to do. Come downstairs Miss Hooper; I'm in need of your assistance."

* * *

Molly jogged down the steps and pressed in the workshop password. The door swung open, and the first thing she heard was Mozart, a calm and soothing piece from _Concerto No. 21_. Before her was Sherlock Holmes, and he was lying back in a black leather hospital chair. Computer monitors surrounded the back of him, all of them reading the various vitals of his body. When she entered, he looked up and gestured for her to show him her hands. Dutifully, she did so. His eyebrows raised slightly in a look of consideration.

"Quite petite indeed," he said quietly, and as she stepped closer Molly looked down at his chest and saw it: the glowing blue of the arc reactor keeping her boss alive.

"What do you need?" she asked after a moment, her gaze locked on the reactor embedded inside his chest.

"In basic terms, you. And your hands. This," he said, tapping at his chest slightly, "needs to be replaced with this." Helpfully, he held up his hand and Molly found that another reactor was in his grip. Admittedly, she couldn't really see the difference between the two aside from that one was a little sleeker than the other, but if he needed her help, then he needed her help.

"Wh-what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing, it's just a small little hiccup, if it's anything. There's an exposed wire under this device," he said as he carefully removed the old arc reactor from his chest. Molly gasped a little.

"Is that safe?"

"Of course it is—I wouldn't be doing it otherwise. Now, this wire is contacting the socket wall and causing a small short to occur. If I take this out…"

Finally, he removed the old reactor from his chest and with a certain degree of nonchalance; he dumped it into her palm. Molly quietly placed it on the table behind her and turned back to him.

Sherlock continued speaking, almost as if what they were doing was completely normal. "You are completely free to reach in and gently lift the wire out. Understood?"

Molly nodded. "Perfectly, Mr Holmes. But are you sure that I'm the right person to do this?"

"In terms of qualifications, no. But in terms of other things, such as trust, then yes. Now please. I do currently have shrapnel trying to enter my heart. Try and hurry."

Despite the strangeness of the situation, Molly couldn't help but roll her eyes and slowly, she reached inside. She grimaced as her hand touched at something wet and gooey.

"Oh God… pus," she moaned, but Sherlock shook his head, sighing a little.

"It isn't pus, Molly. It's nothing more than an inorganic plasmic discharge from the device."

Molly nodded once more to show that she understood and continued on with her work, even though the 'inorganic plasmic discharge' was currently giving off the most horrid of smells. It was only after some hesitation however that her fingers found the offending wire and with the lightest of touches, she removed the wire. She let out a little gasp of surprise and smiled, looking at Sherlock who returned it, apparently impressed by her handiwork.

"Well, congratulations Molly. You're far more adept that I originally believed."

"My father was a doctor," Molly said with a small laugh, and she watched as Sherlock deftly inserted the new reactor into his chest. "He worked from home you see, and I loved watching him. It sort of… fascinated me a little bit. It's stupid though, I know."

"Unusual, yes," Sherlock said, shifting carefully from his seat. "But not stupid. Clearly his work rubbed off on you."

Molly let out a smile and turned away as he resumed his work. The old arc reactor was now sitting on the table, nothing more than a relic. It seemed unfair to leave it in such a state. Carefully, she picked it up and turned back to Sherlock.

"What do you want me to do with this?"

Sherlock gave it nothing but a brief sideways glance. "Nothing. Its use has run out. It'll be better if you just destroy it."

"But…"

"Molly, you have known me for a little over six years now. In that time, have I ever shown any type of nostalgia?"

She was tempted to argue or at least reason with him, but she knew that it was useless to try and reason against the truth. Sherlock Holmes was not one for sentiment; especially not for the nostalgic kind, even though the reactor she now had in her hands had kept him alive when he was on the verge of dying.

_Perhaps that's why he doesn't want to keep it_.

"Will that be all, Mr Holmes?" she said eventually.

He nodded. "That will be all, Miss Hooper."

With a departing smile, Molly turned away and headed for the door. She stopped when Sherlock called her name.

"Yes?"

"Don't bother sending any food. I'll be working for the remainder of the week."

"Inventing mode?"

"Inventing mode."

At this, Molly nodded and departed. Sherlock's lips twitched into a small smile as he saw her jog gracefully up the steps, the old reactor glowing in the palm of her hand. Behind him, his main computer monitor bleeped.

"Admiring the view?"

"Shut up John. Make a new project file—index it as Mark II."

"Very well. Do you want it on the Holmes Industries Central Database?"

Sherlock hesitated before answering. His brother's words echoed inside his memory. _You have made yourself a target; try not to get hit too hard._

"I think it would be best to keep it on the private server, actually."


	11. Chapter Ten

For days, they had been searching in the hot desert sun. Stood above them on a small hill was Raza, barely speaking to any of the men as he impatiently paced up and down, cigarette hanging from his lips, the scars on the side of his face now plain to see. There was no need to give out orders to them; they knew their purpose and knew what to look for. It was on the fifth day that they made a breakthrough. Raza had just lit up his third cigarette of the day when an excited call echoed through the desert. A tall, thin man got to his feet, brandishing the front panel of an iron helmet. Barking orders at his guards to stay close, Raza stormed towards the man and grabbed the item from his grip.

"Did I do well, sir?" the man asked quickly in Arabic. Slowly, Raza smiled and shook his hand gratefully before he took his phone from his pocket and flipped it open, punching in a series of numbers.

This time, he spoke in English. "We've found it."

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes started working, it was inevitable that time would become a construct at the back of his mind, considered irrelevant until he decided different. It was the same with food. Ordinary people needed to refuel; Sherlock had long ago deleted such a need. Hunger interrupted his work, interrupted his thoughts.

So when the door to his workshop swung open and Molly entered carrying a cup of coffee and crisps (and a parcel strangely enough), he frowned.

"Inventing mode," he barked at her, but she shook her head, putting the items on a nearby workbench.

"You've been in here for three days Sherlock. You need to eat."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I've never known you to be this concerned over my eating habits."

"I'm concerned over everything. That's my job. Anyway, Victor's upstairs—and what are you doing?" Molly said, eyeing the sleeve that covered Sherlock's right arm. He grinned.

"Like it? It's part of a new project."

"But… you said you weren't making weapons anymore…?"

Sherlock shook his head and raised his arm towards a target that was a little over 15 metres away. "It's not a weapon—just a flight stabiliser, it's perfectly harmless—"

It was at that point that a jolt of energy violently pushed him backwards into the shelves behind him. Molly immediately ran over to him and grabbed him by the arms, touching at his face and shoulders, looking for an injury. Sherlock swallowed a smile. The feeling wasn't entirely unpleasant, he decided. Molly though was still more preoccupied with looking after her employer.

"Oh, God, Sherlock! Are you okay? Does anything hurt—"

She stopped when she realised that her hands were now resting against his bare shoulders. _His eyes really are a stunning blue_, her mind thought idly. Sherlock clearing his throat brought her back to the present.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" he said a little too loudly and he bounded to his feet, towering over Molly as he grinned wider, happier than she had ever seen him. Molly sighed and brushed herself down, the moment between them gone and forgotten.

"Good. Great. Well, get rid of the simulator—Victor's waiting upstairs."

* * *

When Sherlock did deign to remove himself from the intrigue of his workshop, he found that Molly was now sat on the sofa and tapping out several replies to e-mails (he could tell by her concentrated frown), whilst Victor was sat at the old grand piano, lazily playing a classical piece by… Rachmaninoff. Oof. Clearly things hadn't gone at all well at the shareholder's meeting. Sherlock eyed the pizza box lying open on the coffee table and looked up at the still playing Victor.

"Not good?"

Victor shrugged and got to his feet. "A bit not good, yes." Both he and Sherlock sunk into the warm leather of the sofa at the same time. Victor offered pizza, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Not hungry. Inventing mode."

"Oh, yes. And for three days straight."

Sherlock pointed an accusing glare at Molly, to which she blushed and started to type harder. Victor sighed. "Look, Sherlock. I might as well be straight. The board have filed an injunction against you—they're citing PTSD."

They were trying to lock him out? Sherlock scoffed. "Then they're fools; fools running scared. We—they—knew that the stock value would drop."

"You estimated forty," Molly said matter-of-factly. "It dropped fifty six and a half."

"That is irrelevant; we do after all, have the controlling interest in the company, do we not?"

Victor let out another heavy sigh, delicately rubbing at his temples. "As always Sherlock, you're right. But the board have certain rights—they're only trying to act in the company's best interests."

"As am I—for the first time in my life, I'm being responsible. Surely that's in the company's best interests?"

"Not really," Victor said quietly, to which Sherlock aimed a look at Molly. She however said nothing, unwilling to get involved in the argument. Typical, Sherlock thought bitterly.

"Goodnight Victor," he said as he rose to his feet. Victor's hand on his wrist stopped him from walking any further however. With a great degree of reluctance, Sherlock turned around.

"I can only do so much with what little information I have, Sherlock," Victor reasoned, but Sherlock merely deepened his glare and wrenched his hand from Victor's grip. He tried again.

"Molly told me you've been working on something."

At this, Sherlock aimed his glare squarely at Molly. She however, quickly shook her head. Sherlock frowned—despite her tendency to shy away from an argument, Molly had no reason to lie to him. It didn't benefit her in any way whatsoever. Victor however…

Sherlock had known from childhood not to fully trust anyone who may have called themselves his friend.

"Goodnight Victor," he repeated. With that, he moved away and down back to his workshop.

* * *

Later that night, Molly received a text—from J.O.H.N, no less.

_Password change to Mr Holmes' workshop: password now "HUMANITY"._


	12. Chapter Eleven

He worked for weeks, slowly and carefully building the Mark II. Almost every day, another flight test was conducted and despite some accidents and minor injuries, it became quite clear that Sherlock Holmes was ready to fly.

It was about midnight when he finally completed the suit and with Mozart blaring from the speakers, his machines got to work, fixing and bolting together the suit to his body shape. Almost as soon as it was complete, various diagrams and information popped up on the head up display. Sherlock smiled, muttering under his breath as his eyes scanned the various items and his mind absorbed the information.

"Okay," he said finally. "I think a test flight is in order."

"Sir, there's still terabytes of calculations needed—"

"J.O.H.N, seeing as you are a computer, you may not understand this concept, but there is such a thing as having to run before being able to walk."

"Very well."

Sherlock grinned, and as the suit fired up and he was lifted into the air, he couldn't help but give out a cheer. He was finally doing it. After weeks of work, he was finally flying. He could see anything, whether it be 5 or 50 or even 100 miles away, he could see it as clear as day.

The feeling really was rather exhilarating.

"What's the highest anyone's ever flown, do you think?"

"85,000ft, sir. But I don't think it—"

Sherlock laughed. "Amateurs."

The thrust capacity increased, and he rose higher into the sky, the cold whipping past him but he hardly felt it. He instead continued to rise higher and higher.

J.O.H.N. bleeped warningly. "There's a potentially fatal build-up of ice occurring."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said quickly, his mind focused on other matters.

The thrusters cut off. There was nothing but silence.

Damn.

Now, he was falling, free-falling and the only thing he could see was the rapidly approaching ground. He scrabbled at his side, and finally found it. The lever. Gripping it hard, he pushed it forward and the ice that encased him fell away.

Yet there was still no J.O.H.N. to be found. And he was still in free-fall.

_It's one way to go_, Sherlock thought.

But apparently not today. He surged forward as the thrusters switched back on, blue flooded the heads-up display and there was a harsh bleep as J.O.H.N. reappeared, stabilising the free-falling suit.

"Hello again, sir. I'd advise you not to do that again."

Sherlock chuckled and redirected himself towards home. "Yes, well. It's getting late."

"And this is the very opposite of lying low," J.O.H.N. replied.

The journey home was relatively—and thankfully—easy, and after being removed of the suit, Sherlock moved towards his desk with intent to work. That was scrapped however when he spotted the previously ignored crisps and parcel left out for him by Molly. Eating the crisps, he noted that the parcel was medium to large in size. It was delicately and carefully wrapped, with allowance for easy opening. The wrapping paper that had been used was standard, nothing more than plain brown, but scribbled in red pen on the top were the words 'To Sherlock, love Molly xxx'.

It really was quite remarkable how despite her professional exterior, Molly still managed to be quite a sentimental woman. He smiled a little as he opened the parcel. Inside, there was a glass showcase and inside that same showcase was his old arc reactor, mounted in silver. Just below it, there was an engraving.

"Proof that Sherlock Holmes has a heart," he read out loud.

Sentiment. It was not something he had ever let himself indulge in. Over the years, he had seen what a disadvantage such things as sentiment had given others. But he had also seen the strength it gave to men. Men who would have otherwise been broken.

He still didn't know why he had proclaimed Molly to be his family during that time in the caves. Really, she was more than that. She was a friend also.

"Sir? Are you ready to begin work?"

Sherlock put down the showcase, brushing aside any thoughts of Molly or sentiment for the moment.

"Yes, of course," he said as he moved towards and sat down at his desk. "Now, notes for Mark III. The mains transducer feels sluggish at altitude height of 40 or more, and the hull pressurization is problematic at best. Icing is the probable factor there."

"How observant. Maybe we should improve the exosystems while we're at it. Just in case you might want to visit other planets."

Sherlock chuckled. "That won't be necessary. Just connect to the system computer, have it reconfigure the shell metals. It'll be best to use the gold titanium alloy—that'll ensure fuselage integrity while maintaining power-to-weight ratio."

"Anything else?"

"No. Just render it."

"Very well."

As J.O.H.N. got to work, Sherlock sighed and turned back around to face the television on the opposite wall. The news was on—as it always was, anything else was dull—and a reporter was standing in front of the Royal Albert Hall as guest upon celebrity guest filed into the building, passing legions of fans and photographers on their way.

"The gala being held here tonight at the Royal Albert Hall is the second in a line of planned annual benefits by Holmes Industries in order to raise money for Cancer Research UK, a charity that is known to be close to Sherlock Holmes' heart…"

Sherlock frowned. He could barely remember the first of these so-called 'planned annual benefits'. When had he approved the second one?

"J.O.H.N, did we ever get an invite for this event?"

"There isn't one in my records."

The reporter answered Sherlock's question before he'd even asked it. "Sherlock Holmes however, hasn't been seen in public since his highly controversial press conference where he announced that Holmes Industries weapons division would be shut down for the foreseeable future. It's been claimed by critics that he's suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, whilst some tabloids have claimed him to be bedridden for weeks. In any case, it's doubtful that Sherlock Holmes will be making an appearance tonight. This is Samantha Jones, reporting live from the Royal Albert Hall."

Bedridden? Of all the things in that report, that was the one thing that annoyed him the most. He did one thing slightly out of the ordinary, and now he was to be considered an invalid. They may as well as have just painted a red cross on his door.

"The render is complete," J.O.H.N. said, pulling him away from his thoughts once again. Sherlock groaned on seeing the proposed suit, clad in gold.

"That's a little theatrical."

"And you're so far from that."

Sherlock smiled a little. "Put in some red. That'll at least make it less gaudy." Almost immediately, another render popped on the computer screen, now an equal balance of red and gold.

_Much better_.

"Yes. Fabricate it and paint it. I suppose it should take a few hours."

"Fair enough. Commencing automated assembly. Estimated completion: five hours."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Five hours? "Well then. I suppose it's time for me to get up."


	13. Chapter Twelve

_**Author's Note:** An update! At long last! I'm deeply sorry for taking so long, but seeing as I'm dedicating next week to university work (boo!), I thought this would be the best time to actually give all you lovely readers an update. Lots of love to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and/or followed this fic so far. If I could, I'd buy you all a cookie to celebrate._

* * *

The event was the standard rate of corporate dullness he had expected it to be. Celebrities and socialites populated the entrance, vacuously chatting with the journalists lined up against the barriers. Victor was already there, putting on the charm offensive and churning out a well-rehearsed PR speech. Sherlock sighed a little and after brushing himself down a little, he stepped out of the car. Cameras flashed and the packs of journalists and paparazzi called out his name, eager to get the scoop. He passed all of them, and headed straight through the entrance.

* * *

If it was possible, there were even more celebrities and corporate people packed into the inside of the venue, all of them chatting inanely with one another and having an impossibly lovely time. The first place Sherlock visited was the bar, and it was with a degree of nonchalance that he leaned against it, now with a drink in hand as he surveyed the rest of the party.

"Mr Holmes?" said a short yet authoritative man. Sherlock's gaze swept over him for a moment and he took a sip of his drink.

"Agent Coulson. You were at my press conference."

"Yes. Yes I was. We still need to talk to you about the means of your escape."

"Of course you do," Sherlock replied, his gaze now focused on the party. He beginning to wonder why on earth he'd even bothered to turn up. The alternative to this was to—quite literally—watch paint dry and so far, it was appearing to be the more exciting option.

A sliver of black caught his eye. Choosing to ignore the agent beside him, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, continuing to watching that same sliver of black. He recognised those shoulders. The sliver of black moved slightly to the right, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly. Loose curls fell around her shoulders whilst her dress—made of black satin—was sensible but still appealing to the eye. It was all very her. Very… Molly.

Also very distracting.

"Mr Holmes? Did you hear me?" Coulson said, a little more tentatively this time. Sherlock glanced at him.

"Yes—of course."

"So you understand that we still need to debrief you on your escape and its circumstances?"

Sherlock nodded once, his gaze shifting back to Molly. Coulson began to repeat his question, but was unable to finish it. Sherlock had already gone.

Taking the final sip of his drink and dumping it on the tray of a passing waiter, he moved through the crowd, genially smiling and shaking hands with various guests as he went. Molly was now chatting with a co-worker—he could tell by her relaxed body language—but she didn't hold a drink in her hands. So she was clearly here in a professional capacity. It briefly crossed his mind that it might be best to leave it alone and just walk away, but the selfish side of him made him continue walking towards her and gently tap at the crook of her elbow and lean in close to her ear.

"Hello."

As he thought, she jumped slightly with surprise.

"Oh," she said with an immediate smile. "It's you."

He tilted his head to the side, and smirked with amusement. He had expected her to be surprised, but he hadn't expected just how appealing her surprise made her. If he had the inclination to use that kind of language, he might have termed her smile to be "adorable".

Carefully, he took her hand. Her smile dropped, and formed into a small 'o' shape.

"What—what are you doing?"

"Inviting you for a dance," he said simply and before she could make a protest, he widened his smile and escorted her towards the dancefloor. Once there, he scooped his arm around her waist and gently pulled her close to him. Slowly, they began to sway together to the sound of bland jazz, silence echoing between them. Molly was the one to break it.

"Isn't this a little…" She shrugged in lieu of completing her question.

"I don't think so. Can't I dance with my assistant?"

"Well, yes—I don't know. It's just… well. All my colleagues are here."

Sherlock frowned, looking at her. Her eyes were wide, and if they said one thing, it was this: _Get me out of here._

He may have been a selfish being, and prone to thoughtlessness, but he knew when to stop something. If Molly didn't want to dance, then she didn't want to dance. With a brief nod, he stepped away from her.

"I suggest we go outside."

* * *

They ended up leaving through the very back of the building and onto the pavement, which was surprisingly empty. The air was cooler too, causing Molly to shiver. Automatically, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She directed a wide smile at him as she pulled it closer around her.

"Thanks."

He said nothing, but the edges of his mouth twitched into a smile.

"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "You know, for dancing. With you. It was awkward, and stupid, and—"

"I invited you to dance."

"Forced."

"Negotiated," he said quickly, taking a cigarette packet from his trouser pocket and a lighter. He proffered it to Molly, but she shook her head.

"My dad… he didn't like smokers."

"He'd have hated me then," Sherlock muttered as he lit a cigarette and took a drag. Molly shook her head slightly, and tugged his jacket closer around herself.

"I don't think so. He—" She glanced at him, and shook her head. Sherlock chose not to pursue the subject. Silence fell on them and as he smoked, Sherlock stole small glances at the woman beside him. She scrubbed up well, all things considered. True, she wasn't as well dressed as some of the other women back inside the party, but that seemed only to benefit her. She was less glossy than all of those socialites; more real. It felt like she actually wanted to be there—and not just for the sake of it. And somehow, that only added to the beauty she already possessed.

Yes. It was certainly distracting.

"Why didn't you want to dance?" he asked, only registering that he'd said it a few seconds after the act. The human part of him wanted to blush, but he repressed it. Molly blinked at him. For a moment, she considered both him and her answer.

"I guess—I thought people might…"

"Think you were sleeping with me to get ahead in your career?" Sherlock suggested as he took another drag of his cigarette. Molly sighed lightly and nodded.

"To put it bluntly."

"It was just one dance, Miss Hooper."

Molly shrugged. "People… people talk."

"They do little else," Sherlock murmured, and he dropped his cigarette on the pavement and stubbed it out underfoot. Molly smiled a tiny, barely there smile but it fell almost immediately as a car speeded by, bringing with it a short but hefty breeze, causing her to shiver.

"I'd best be getting inside," she said and she quickly shrugged the jacket from her shoulders, folding it and handing it back to Sherlock with a polite smile. Half-heartedly, he returned it, taking the jacket from her.

"Thank you," he said. She turned to leave, and out of some childish need to keep her by his side, he took her by the hand.

"You wouldn't have to, you know."

Again, she frowned. "What?"

"You know. Sleep with me. You're competent enough at your job." He cleared his throat before continuing. "More than competent in fact."

Hearing this, she relaxed a little and turned to face him. Any apparent thoughts of leaving had seemed to have been temporarily forgotten—a fact that pleased Sherlock no end. She was the only one worth talking to at this evening.

His mind registered that he still had hold of her hand. Quickly he let go.

"I suppose you missed me. When I was in Afghanistan."

She demurred to his question with a smile. It was only when he gave a small nod of encouragement that she answered. "Of course I did. You're my boss, and you're… well, you're you."

She didn't embellish on her statement, but that was something which Sherlock was rather thankful for. Sometimes, it was best to say as little as possible; and when Molly was around, sometimes the need for conversation just wasn't there, for either of them. Yet the unspoken statement of her words hung there, moving and flowing with the wind. Smiling genially, Molly rubbed at her upper arms and looked up at him. Somehow, he found himself remembering back to the caves; back to that evening when he had named her as his family. He realised with a start that that still held true; he did think of her as his family. Not just in the defining terms, but in a much bigger way too. She wasn't just his assistant—she was a woman of her own volition. Quiet she may have been, but that didn't mean she was one to be overlooked. His time in the caves had shown him that; and it annoyed him now to think about how callous he had been towards her when she had first begun working for him.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked tentatively, and he felt her hand gently squeeze at his arm. He blinked, turning his head to face her as he came to the realisation that he hadn't spoken a word for the last minute or so—and that he'd been staring at Molly for just as long. Shaking his head slightly, he cracked a grin.

"I need a drink. How about you?"

If she was disappointed with what she'd heard, she didn't give it away. Instead, she merely nodded.

"Sure. I'll be in the lobby," she added and she turned on her heels and headed back into the building. After a few moments, Sherlock followed.

* * *

The bar wasn't that busy, considering the largeness of the event. Even Agent Coulson had disappeared off somewhere else. Unfortunately for Sherlock, there was one woman there, delicately sipping at a glass of white wine. Her red hair was tangled up into a bun and she was dressed in a way that she clearly thought was professional. Kitty Riley.

Sadly, she had noticed him before he had noticed her and it was with a wide smug grin on her face that she approached him. Sherlock didn't even attempt to smile at her.

"Miss Riley."

She tilted her head to the side slightly, and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Mr Holmes. I have to say, you've definitely got courage."

"Thank you. But I don't see how my courage relates to you. You still won't get an interview with me."

Kitty scoffed slightly and took another sip of her wine, leaning against the bar. "I don't need an interview anymore Mr Holmes. I know everything about you."

"Do you? Then please, do inform me what I had for breakfast this morning. I've already forgotten."

"You're pretty cheerful for a man who condemned an entire village to death."

That was what caught his attention. Spinning round to fully face her, he narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?"

Kitty smirked and seemingly out of nowhere, she produced a handful of photographs. Sherlock took them without a word. They were amateur, blurred. Clearly taken with a phone, and by someone in a hurry.

"It's a village, in the Afghan desert," Kitty explained. Her tone was softer now. "It's called Gulmira." Sherlock continued to flick through the photographs, and with every one, his heart dropped that little bit more. Although the photos were blurred and shaky, in almost every single one there was one thing that was clear as the light of the day: the logo for Holmes Industries.

"Where did you get these?"

"Our war correspondent sent them through yesterday. We haven't heard from him since."

"I doubt you will. This is the work of the Ten Rings. And they have my weapons. Why do they have my weapons?"

"Your company approved the shipment," Kitty said, shrugging a little. She held out a hand for the photographs, but Sherlock failed to notice, his attention absorbed into picking up every little detail in the photographs that was possible. Victor. He had to talk to Victor.

* * *

He jogged past the crowd of grinning guests and made his way outside, where he found Victor stood by the entrance, talking congenially with a journalist. Seeing Sherlock however quickly deflated his mood, and after swiftly abandoning the interview, he moved towards Sherlock, his smile wide and clearly fake. Sherlock didn't even wait for the superficial greeting and he shoved the photos into Victor's open hands.

"There's a mole. Inside the company. I haven't figured out how, but I just know that there's a mole, someone on the inside who's approving these shipments and double-dealing. I—" He stopped short when he saw Victor's triumphant smile.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

Victor clasped a hand to Sherlock's shoulder and his smile widened. "Who do you think filed the injunction against you? It's time to let some new blood in, Sherlock."

Sherlock's features were hard and dark as he stared at the man in front of him. He should've known—he should've _seen_. Victor had always been this way, ever since they were boys at school. It was almost shameful, how slow he'd been on the uptake. His fists clenched with the temptation to punch the smug look off Victor's face, but he stopped himself. Now wasn't the time to make a scene. Was it?

It was too late anyway. Victor had already tucked the photos into his pocket and was already sliding into his car. Sherlock watched him go. It struck him just how numb he felt.


End file.
